


Never Good, Just The Bad and The Ugly

by overratedantihero



Series: Strange is the Call of This Strange Man [12]
Category: Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Crying, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Sort Of, Trauma, disassociating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 12:20:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14332365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overratedantihero/pseuds/overratedantihero
Summary: Dick finds out. He takes it better than Slade anticipated.





	Never Good, Just The Bad and The Ugly

**Author's Note:**

> This has gotten dark where I set out to write fluff. I’ll probably write a few sweeter installments going forward. ☺️

****

Not for the first time, Dick found himself crushed underneath the weight of good intentions diluted by terrible execution.

More to the point, he was crushed under the weight of Slade, who’d tossed Dick onto the bed of a safe house on the outskirts of Gotham. In his haze of pain from the rough travel and his healing throat and chest, Dick felt panic too. Panic because he’d made the brash decision to crawl into the arms of a mercenary, because he was too disoriented to know where exactly he was, because he thought he’d known all of Slade’s local safe houses but clearly he didn’t know shit, and did he ever really?

Wandering hands grounded Dick, and he gasped out a roughened whine. “Slade,’ he rasped. “Slade, where are we?”

The overhead lights were off, the only light was that of a full moon, filtering in through curtains Slade was hasty enough to leave open. Hasty or arrogant. Slade pushed himself above Dick on an arm, his unmasked face catching the meager glow from the window. Dick’s eyes traveled from Slade’s face to his bearded jaw to the honeycomb pattern of his suited chest. There, lightly concealed by the orange and black, Dick saw flecks of drying blood.

Swallowing hard, Dick’s eyes flicked to the white clad arm that held Slade’s body above his own. Flecks and smears of flaky, dried blood coated the arm. Dick swore he saw a bloody handprint and he closed his eyes, furrowing his brows. The lighting was bad in the hospital, when Slade swept him away. It was plausible he didn’t see it. It was probable he refused to see it.

“Slade,” Dick whispered, eyes still squeezed shut. Gloved fingers ran through his hair and Dick wondered if he’d find copper flakes in his hairbrush later.

“Pretty bird,” Slade cooed.

Slade’s voice was sweet, affectionate. Off, alarming. Years of conditioning prompted Dick (Robin) to seek an out, but he was weak from weeks of bedrest and trapped beneath a killer with whom Dick was foolish enough to tangle his emotions.

“What did you do?” Dick finally opened his eyes, stared up into Slade’s. Slade didn’t so much as blink.

“They didn’t protect you. Not from me, not from those who’d snatch you from the sky if they could. They’re inadequate, Dick.”

Dick let out a steeling breath. “What did you do,” he asked again.

Slade’s eye seemed to glint. “I did what I did for you, pretty bird. I took care of it, of Bludhaven, of the men who’ve assaulted you and would do worse if given the opportunity. You were conditioned by the Bat to leave yourself victimized and naive. I won’t allow his failures to slide around your neck like a noose.”

It was Slade, of course it was Slade. Dick blinked back tears. He’d been so stupid. So vapid to think that the strings of deaths and the words of Blockbuster’s knife wielding muscle weren’t tied to Slade’s intermittently standoffish behavior and inconsistent appearances. And Dick- Dick had fucked a loaded gun. He’d told Slade about the crude words and lingering eyes of men who were now dead. Their blood was on Dick’s hands even as it dried on Slade’s swords and suit.

For better or for worse, Dick was Bruce’s son. Dick had a file on Slade large enough to fill its own jump drive. He knew about Slade’s tendency to hyper fixate, to obsess. And Dick knew Slade had also studied Dick, well enough to know that Dick wouldn’t...couldn’t do the things that Slade did. Even as the sharp bite of betrayal latched up Dick’s already sore throat, he had no doubt that Slade had acted and continued to act in sincerity, which only served to deepen Dick’s anguish.

A thumb swiped under Dick’s eye, swiping away the tears gathered there, and Dick flinched.

“Kid-“ Slade began, but Dick shook his head.

“How many?” Dick rasped. “How many have you killed because of me?”

Slade’s expression softened. “None of their deaths fall on your head. They have only themselves to blame. Their actions made them targets, and their arrogance made them easy ones at that. And think, little bird, of those that can sleep a little easier knowing that there’s one less gang for their hero to stretch himself thin over.”

Realization dawned on Dick’s face and Slade looked at him with almost pitying affection.

“All of them? Roland?” Dick whimpered.

Slade pecked his forehead and Dick heard a ringing in his ears. Hot tears spilled from Dick’s eyes, but even that sensation fell away from him as he disappeared somewhere inside of himself.

He must have been speaking, because then Slade kissed the corner of his mouth and murmured, “You didn’t do a thing, kid. There is no good, there is no bad. You’re blameless.”

Dick still couldn’t move, and so Slade gathered him close and buried his face in Dick’s hair, wrinkling Dick’s hospital gown in the process thereof.

“It’ll be okay, kid,” Slade murmured.

“What have you done,” Dick groaned. “Slade. What am I going to do? I can’t- I can’t-“

“Sh, little bird. You don’t need to do anything, I’m taking care of it. I have you.”

I can’t trust you, Dick wanted to say. I’ll never be able to look Bruce in the face again, he wanted to add. I thought I could save you but you’ve only sullied me, he thought about bringing up. Instead, he sobbed until he dry heaved and then he fell asleep against Slade’s chest.

Jason arrived, some forty odd minutes later, with a black duffel bag. Dick had slid down from Slade’s chest and was curled in Slade’s still armored lap while Slade stroked his sleeping head. Jason slid the window closed behind himself.

“Clothes,” Jason whispered, dumping the duffel to the floor. “And a horse tranquilizer for when he wakes up and flips his shit.”

Slade blinked at Jason, and Jason (not for the first time) questioned what he was doing. He thought he’d been handing Dick to someone who’d protect him and help him adjust. But all he saw now was a predator hunched over the tear streaked face of his older brother.

Jason opened his mouth and Slade cocked an eyebrow.

“This is temporary,” Jason dared to say anyway. “I’ll be taking him back, when he wakes up, gets a little better.”

Slade blinked again. “He’s not a doll. He’ll decide where he goes.”

Feeling brave, Jason barker back, “Will he?”

“Say goodbye, Jason,” Slade murmured, leaving a hand draped across Dick’s neck.

“Goodbye, Jason,” Jason muttered, casting Dick one last glance before absconding from the window. 


End file.
